GOD & THE FISH FRY

The first Friday of Lent arrived, and being the good Catholic boy I am, I wanted to make sure I had a fish sandwich, just as I had one every Friday for as long as I can remember.

Cold air and a strong breeze left me feeling as if winter was finally moving on to wherever it goes after challenging us with excruciatingly long nights, bone-chilling temperatures, and occasional snow showers in February. As much as I love preparing for Christmas and winter in late fall,  I had begun to commit wholeheartedly to the arrival of spring; unfortunately, I felt as if my eyes were barely adjusting to the oncoming light of the horizon.

After an early morning class, I drove around, wondering which fish fry would be open at 11:30 AM. That's kind of early as most Catholic Churches use their school cafeterias to welcome the onslaught of people ready to commence the yearly Lenten tradition. We all partake in the oddly spiritual commercialization that pieces of lightly breaded fried pollock or whitefish between two slices of generic white bread brings to religious-minded people. Throw in some french fries, mac and cheese, apple pie, and a can of Coke, and you will have a Lenten fast worthy of a king. (I am well aware of my cynicism. I plan to work on it this Easter season as part of my goal to improve myself.)

As I drove around, all these thoughts continued. What am I doing? Why am I searching for a fish fry? Why not go to Arby’s or Wendy’s? I do not think this is at all a crisis of faith. I consider myself more like a sheep wandering away from the flock. Not too far, but enough to explore on my own without getting lost.

My Aunt Rosie always baked a tasty pineapple upside-down cake for the fish fry at Our Lady of Seven Dolors Church. Aunt Rosie was a loyal congregant at St. Vincent de Paul Catholic Church in Elm Grove, the “descendant” church a mile or two from Seven Dolors. Since my aunt's passing (God rest her sweet soul), my Aunt Lou has taken up the mantle of the pineapple upside-down cake in her sister's memory.

My parish, Saint Michael, wouldn't start its fish fry until 4 o'clock, and I felt the old pangs of hunger early on this Friday. So I made my way from downtown Wheeling to the outskirts of Elm Grove where I headed up Route 40 past Bliefus Tire Service to Our Lady of Seven Dolors. 

Do you ever notice that we tend to see people and places, traditions and celebrations, differently as we grow older? What we once saw as simply a random moment or place, often means so much more as we consider how our lives are changing. The memories pile up until they evolve into perceptions we never see coming.

Our Lady of Seven Dolors Church sits near the bottom of Chapel Hill Road, beside a small, beautifully manicured cemetery. Both are picturesque visions into the past, inviting passersby to slow down well below the speed limit. The entire area whispers of times long gone while beckoning to the modern world, hoping that life will not move on without it.

I parked near the cemetery, and began walking to the fish fry, stopping at the steps leading up to the seldomly-used church and the grey concrete nameplate affixed to the brick of the old building. The entrance was at the bottom of a steep stairwell, much like the concrete steps at my grandfather's house which once stood at the top of Edgington Lane. Those steps at my grandfather's home led down to his dark and damp basement where he would sort eggs into cartons for Saturday delivery. But those steps at Seven Dolors? They led me down to something altogether different.

I pulled open the door to a basement lined with wall-to-wall banquet tables. Countless people sat back to back, pressing themselves against the edges of each table to leave as much room as possible behind themselves. Any newcomer had to navigate the thin space between the diners with the adventurous skill of Indiana Jones carefully traversing through dark catacombs riddled with traps and pitfalls.

I must say that as much as the cold and wind outside left my bones achy and sore, the welcoming confines of the basement fish fry warmed my soul with a sense of renewal I had not expected, a spirit I did not quite comprehend until I embraced the experience and accepted what this event meant to the people here. 

From where I sat, I could see through a small window into the kitchen. All the older women gathered around a table in the center of the room, lovingly placing pieces of hot fish between slices of bread and then loading the trays at the window with sandwiches, mac and cheese or coleslaw containers, and bowls of homemade vegetable soup. The women moved beautifully together, like multiple mothers and grandmothers caring for a solitary child they all called their own.

I broke from my observations to text some coworkers at school. I had to tell them about this place. I sent pictures of the placemat and the fish sandwich, which was hardly a convincing way to explain my feelings adequately. Indeed, pictures were one thing, but the words were more challenging. I eventually texted random thoughts, desperate to convey my feelings. I rattled off odd things, calling the fish fry in the basement “heartwarming.” I chuckled and texted, “It is more magical than Disney.”

I was excited yet frustrated about my explanations as I paid my bill and left, only realizing a more thoughtful insight upon returning to my car. I immediately sent my last text, strange words to describe a fish fry: “I feel as if God was there.” 

Those seven words remained with me throughout the following week. I had to travel back up Route 40, back up Chapel Hill Road, and back down the stairs to the basement of Our Lady of Seven Dolors to find out if God would return to the fish fry on the Second Friday of Lent.

Where once I had seen a simple fish fry in an old church basement, I now believed I had experienced much more. Was it God? I didn’t know, but I wanted to switch myself up a little bit. Typically, I have no issue actively observing from the sidelines to gain unique insight. But finding out why I thought God was actually here would take more effort on my part.

As I opened the door, I knew I would need to be proactive to find the answers to my questions. No more sitting back and watching from a distance. The fish fry was even more crowded this week, so talking to people would be a struggle.

On this day, I ordered more from the menu. I had cole slaw and some small condiment cups of these homemade pickles. The cole slaw reminded me of Mom when she made her slaw (Love you, Mom💖) with Marzetti Original Cole Slaw Dressing. The pickles, though. What are these about? I scanned around the room to find out where they came from. To my right, I saw bottles stacked by the checkout line. To my left, near the canned drinks, I saw a huge tray filled with those small condiment cups of pickles. 

“Ma’am?” I called to the lovely gray-haired lady wearing St. Patrick’s Day attire near the phone, where she took calls for take-out. 

She looked puzzled, perhaps wondering if I was talking to her.

I held up one of my containers of pickles. “What is the deal with the pickles, ma’am? I never see these at any other fish fry. Did someone here make them?”

She smiled and nodded her head. “We all do over the summer. Right here.”

“You make them here?” I looked over at the table again, stood up, and walked toward the tray where I repeated my question. “You all make the pickles here?” 

“A.J., do you need something?” a man’s voice asked behind me. It was Larry Bandi, our former school president at Central Catholic High School.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Larry. I wasn’t taking anything. I just wanted to see this big tray of pickles. The lady there says you all make these here over the summer. Is that right? Are they made for the fish fry?”

Larry laughed. “That’s true. We come in for three days over the summer. We cut and prep the vegetables for the jars, let them soak, and then jar them. You know, all of the stuff your mom used to do. Just so we can use them for the fish fry.”

I stood there for a moment, absolutely astonished. I began to look more carefully around the room at the old pictures hanging on the walls. I had assumed they were pictures of other church events, families, children, or Jesus holding a lamb. “Larry, how long has this fish fry been going on?”

Larry seemed lost in thought over my question. “I don’t know, A.J.”

As I patiently waited for Larry to answer,  I began calculating for myself. “Larry, is it over forty years?”

“Oh, yes!” Larry waived another worker over. “How long have we been doing the fish fry?”

The lady shook her head. “I am not sure, Larry. I know it has to be more than fifty years.”

Larry led me over to some pictures on the adjacent wall. We made our way through the tight space between the tables and closely looked at it together. We studied the three black and white pictures in the wooden frame. They were all older women, not the ones working in the kitchen. Perhaps their mothers. My mind was racing with more questions.

“Hey,” Larry called out to someone behind us. “Is this Ginny Blake?” 

I read the rectangular papers at the bottom of each picture within the frame. “Larry, look here.” I pointed to the last paper. “This paper here says ‘Virginia Blake.’ I think this is her, Larry.”

We both stepped back and looked around. The crowd had dissipated. A few tables still had small groups who continued to talk to one another. Time passed slowly as we stood there thinking, contemplating our ages and the timeless longevity of this church and its fish fry.

“Larry, I want to grab a piece of pie from the dessert table. I am sure you have stuff to do. Thanks again for sharing this with me.”

I returned to my original spot where I had eaten my sandwich, cole slaw, and pickles. I dug into a slice of homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie. The thin, delicately smooth crust and the sweet and tart combination of the strawberry and rhubarb spoke of the love and tradition remarkably evident in the fish fry.

Nearly two weeks ago, I was looking for a good fish sandwich on a Friday in Lent. Memories of my traditions and family brought me here, where I found more than I ever expected.

I found a community wholeheartedly rooted in faith and service when I opened the door to the basement fish fry at Our Lady of Seven Dolors Church. The secret traditions of preparing the fish, sharing familial baked goods, the seasonal jarring of homemade pickles, and welcoming strangers to their community allow them to miraculously circumvent the cold inevitability of time. 

I understand why I thought God was here. 

SYNERGY

 

"I am a little nervous about all of this, Emily."

"Why would you be nervous?" Emily asked, keeping her eyes on Hartsville, South Carolina's streets, as she drove around Coker University toward DeLoach Center, the university's gymnasium.

"I don't know. I am anxious about everything nowadays."

"You don't need to be, Uncle AJ."

"I know. I am excited about watching Michael's practice. We are going to sit away from the team, right? I don't want to call any attention to myself or mess up his practice."

Emily laughed and continued to put me at ease. "We'll be fine. We will sit away from the team up in the bleachers."

"That'll be perfect," I told her with relief.

I planned this trip for months, eagerly anticipating seeing Emily's husband coach his second season of men's basketball at Coker University. At the end of November, the Cobras were a nationally ranked basketball team, so I had picked the perfect time to visit. I just did not want to jinx the team by being here.

Emily and I walked into the spacious gymnasium. I expected the team would have already been running up and down the court. Not a soul sat anywhere in the blue bleachers where I thought we would inconspicuously watch practice. Surprisingly, I found a collection of chairs across the floor in preparation for a ceremony. Ushers sat in each of the four corners of the gym while a woman explained what they would be doing later in the day.

"Oh, Uncle AJ," Emily whispered. "The school is having winter graduation here tomorrow morning before the game. I didn't think they would be setting up this early." She waved her hand for me to follow her. "They must be practicing in the auxiliary gym."

We left the big gymnasium, where I pictured my anxious self quietly watching the practice, and headed toward what I knew would be a much smaller gym. I would lose the security of the open area, and now I struggled to envision a different scenario in which I would be much closer to the action than I wanted to be.

Emily opened the fire door so I could enter the auxiliary gym. Oh, No. I thought to myself. They are already practicing. I looked around for a long bench, perhaps even a chair. Damn. Nothing. As the coaches observed the organized chaos from the center court, the players ran back and forth, dribbling, passing, and shooting a dozen basketballs. I felt like a student who was incredibly late to class already in session, struggling to find an open desk where there were none.

Emily was already walking down the sidelines. She turned around and tenderly smiled as I stood far behind her. She again waved for me to follow her to where she had found a couple of fold-out chairs hidden behind an equipment cart. I quietly and carefully walked near the edge of the court, already caught up in the excitement and slightly worried about an errant pass hitting me upside my old head.

The two of us sat in the same chairs for the entire practice. Ever the mother and multi-tasker, Emily watched but spent occasional moments on her cell phone looking for last-minute Christmas gifts. I was there for the first time and locked in.

Last year, Michael took his first head coaching job at Coker University. The distance between Wheeling and Hartsville has had us all watching the Cobra games on Flosports rather than in person. Two winters ago, I would help Mom walk into my cozy study, where she would sit in my recliner while watching the games stream on my desktop.

We both had a printed roster to cheer for the team's players, occasionally yelling at them while munching on our bowls of chips and dip. Mom loved watching Coker as much as she loved watching Emily and Michael play for the West Liberty Hilltoppers. Game nights were big events in our house.

I found myself asking Emily questions about the players. They were odd questions but ones that helped me connect this team with last year's team. "So Ian, he got big over the summer, didn't he?" "And Glen, his hair is short this year." Emily would laugh at my observations and then update me on all the recent changes, pointing out the new players and where players from last year had gone. It was all too much to remember.

In The Empire Strikes Back, Yoda tries to teach a young Luke Skywalker to "feel the Force" so that he can become a Jedi Knight. The Force is the energy surrounding all living things, binding them together. A Jedi must be able to "feel the Force" because it is palpable to those who can sense it. By doing so, a Jedi can use his gifts and power.

As a teacher, I always relished the moments when everyone in the class was actively engaged in what we were doing. We could be working on a creative project, having a class discussion, or peer-editing during a writing lab. Students would talk with one another, perhaps even unknowingly inspire a peer. Occasionally, someone would struggle, and a classmate would volunteer to help. There was simply this feeling that everyone was working with a united sense of purpose - a synergy.

As I watched the team, I witnessed their synergy from the outside looking in. Yet, despite sitting on this fold-out chair alongside the brick wall, I still felt the energy, almost as if I were part of the team on the court. I was glad that we weren't in the larger gymnasium. From here, I could watch everyone pushing one another, barking out directions to those out of position, and celebrating when one of the new guys showed more heart than anyone thought he had.

The team broke into smaller squads to practice their full-court press and run their offense and defense in half-court scrimmages, while squads who were catching their breath would talk about how they, as a group, could do better when they headed back into action. Even though the grueling practice continued non-stop for nearly an hour and a half, no one seemed to lose enthusiasm.

Later, I shared my thoughts with Michael and Emily about the practice, comparing them to my experiences in the classroom. Watching them reminded me of the difficulty of keeping a group on the same page while moving toward a similar destination. I shared with Michael that a team exhibiting this type of unity is a work of art.

Synergy harmonizes in a choir singing on key with equal passion, presenting a moving rendition of a classical hymn. Synergy exists in an incredible painting where all the hues, strokes, and shadows blend perfectly. And synergy embodies a team that respects, supports, and celebrates one another as they all reach for a common goal.

Yes, Luke, feel the synergy.